“I didn’t mean to play hookey. It wasn’t my fault,” he blurted out.
“Ah, my lad,” here spoke the artist, “you know I was a bit—ah—er—surprised, don’t you know, and I wanted to awsk you something.”
“Yes, sir,” blubbered Ned, humbly, with eyes cast down.
“I gave you some stories of my journey through Ceylon for your composition, you know. Another lad read them off here this morning.”
“He stole my paper from me,” burst out Ned. “The mean bully! He gave me his to read, but I tore it up. I won’t stand it any longer,” and Ned began to bawl.
“It’s a clear case, Miss,” said the artist. “A—ah, er—decidedly mean theft. This Thistle boy——”
“Burr,” corrected the teacher, with a smile.
“Ah, yes, Burr. He should be exposed, Miss.”
“I think the school board will expel him when they know the facts of the case,” said the teacher.
“Won’t he be boss of ‘The Blues’ any more, then?” asked Ned, eagerly.